Coming softly down the room was an Indian woman of comely face and strange garb. Over a soft shirt of cut and weave such as Rhoda had on, she wore a dark overdress caught at one shoulder and reaching only to the knees. A many-colored girdle confined the dress at the waist. Her legs and feet were covered with high, loose moccasins. Her black hair hung free on her shoulders.
"You been much sick," the woman went on, "much sick," stooping to straighten Rhoda's blanket.
"Where am I?" asked Rhoda.
"At Chira. You eat breakfast?"
Rhoda caught the woman's hand.
"Who are you?" she asked. "You have been very good to me."
"Me Marie," replied the woman.
"Where are Kut-le and the others?"
"Kut-le here. Others in mountain. You much sick, three days."
Rhoda sighed. Would this kaleidoscope of misery never end!